Tag: Randal Kolo Muani

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Spurs match reports

Fulham 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The New Manager Slump

Just to prove that it’s not all whiskey-odoured spillages and cantankerous grumblings from the armchair, AANP had the jolly dubious ‘pleasure’ – a term not so much being misused in this sentence as straightforwardly butchered – of commentating on the latest debacle of the Good Ship Hotspur this afternoon, live and from a near-enough front row seat at Craven Cottage. Couldn’t have buried my head in my hands if I’d wanted to.

Needless to say, this being 2026 and all, our lot stank the place out for nigh-on the majority. Whiffling a goal out of thin air on the hour mark at least lent an air of respectability in the record books I suppose, and as is their wont our heroes will probably pat themselves on the back for applying a spot of added-time pressure, creating the illusion of a close-run thing.

Don’t be fooled, however. At half-time, a bunch of stats were thrust in my face, providing a bit of the old ammo for listeners, including the frankly astonishing record that at that point we’d had more shots on goal than the other lot.

Be that as it may (and closer inspection revealed that this included those speculative jobs from 30 yards that were charged down immediately upon leaving the lilywhite boot, without ever getting anywhere near the oppo goal), our lot were a rotten old mess. A sprinkling of Too-Little-Too-Late back and forthing around their area at the death hardly changes that.

None of which is particularly surprising, as we’ve watched this nonsense for nigh on two seasons without interruption now, but the concern here is that this Episode 2 of the Tudor era, and, well… not to be indelicate, but isn’t something supposed to happen at this point? ‘New Manager Bounce’ and all that hokum? Ought it not to have kicked in about now? Or, as my Spurs-supporting chum Dave so pithily put it, are we the only club in history who bring in a new manager and immediately become worse?

I suppose an optimist might argue that we are no worse, simply at the same level; but when Vicario, supposedly one of the few leaders of this inept pack, took aim and blasted a free kick from halfway straight out for a goal kick at the other end of the pitch, the words did slightly stick in my throat rather than spilling freely into the microphone. If nothing else, I suppose, we have ourselves a red-hot favourite in the race to be the clip that sums up the current management reign.

Returning to the New Manager Bounce, I scratch the old loaf a bit because one simply expects a reaction to the new chappie. Admittedly this Tudor fellow has been dealt a pretty duff hand in terms of personnel, and injuries, and so on. And as for formations, there are only so many positions into which diehard 6 out of 10ers like Dragusin and Gallagher can be shunted.

But I had expected a dash more purpose and vim about our play, a general sense of bullishness and enthusiasm. We might not necessarily have dizzied Fulham with an array of scorching one-touch passes, but I had rather hoped that we might simply overwhelm them with a relentless energy bordering on the violent.

Instead, there seemed to be a lot of the usual mediocre fluff that has been shoved down our gullets for the last year or so. Kolo Muani flinging up his hands, and Porro dedicating energies to writhing on the ground. Dragusin blooting the ball into no man’s land and Gallagher scurrying this way and that like an ownerless wind-up toy. One almost wonders if Tudor’s arrival actually has inspired the troops after all.

Sitting in on the press conference afterwards for an earwig, I got the impression that Tudor is the sort of soul whose default setting is to stomp moodily about any room in which he finds himself. He barked a fair bit about the VAR shout for the first goal (in his defence, in answer to a question); glared around as if trying to decide at whom to throw a chair; and ultimately resorted to answers of the curt variety before rising to his feet and stomping off again. I suppose one might paint him as the sort of character to strike the fear of God into some of the more nervous squad members, but frankly an inspirational sort of chump he did not seem.  

2. Sliver Linings. Well, Not Really, But The Least Dreadful Performances

Young Monsieur Tel bounded around like a garçon with a point to prove after his arrival, so that was nice. On one or two occasions, for a glorious couple of seconds, he looked like he might be about to Ginola his way in and out of the entire Fulham defence. It didn’t quite work, but even on a good day it’s rather cheering to see a fellow put his head down and slalom through opposition defence, so with so little else to raise the spirits his was a welcome contribution.

Our goal was a bit of a curio, by virtue of being entirely out of keeping with what had gone on in the preceding hour or so. For our heroes actually to open up the Fulham defence was a bit of an event, so well done to Messrs Tel and Gray for having the bright idea.

I also send a shrug of acknowledgement the way of Richarlison, for having the good sense to direct his free header into the net, before, naturally, picking up another of those Richarlison yellow cards that we can file under ‘Ludicrous and Unnecessary’.

It’s hardly a national secret that AANP is no huge fan of the chap, he being more likely to trip over his own feet and then start a fight with his shadow than actually produce moments of Brazilian magic in the lilywhite of Spurs. However, this afternoon, once introduced, he prowled and bumped and buffeted his way through proceedings, seemingly adopting the view that if he could not best Fulham with flair he would instead start fights of both the subtle and unsubtle varieties. I was glad to see someone in lilywhite (or, rather, natty black) care quite so much.

And I think that’s about as far as the praise extends today. The rest of them can pretty much go and boil their heads.

3. The VAR Shout

I’m rather reluctant to give this airtime, because, as last week, doing so creates the utterly false impression that if the decision had gone our way then the outcome might have been different. I think nothing of the sort. Our lot stank the place out inf the first half, and VAR call or no VAR call, we were good value for a 2-0 half-time deficit. Immediately prior to our goal, Smith-Rowe ought really to have dinked the game to bed. This was a well-earned defeat.

Nevertheless, one does rather wave the arms in frustration in seeing a replica of last week’s Kolo Muani shove go unpunished when executed against us this week. No doubt someone or other with a flair for these things will adjust their spectacles, bury their head in the minutiae of the game and insist something about on-field decisions that means that actually, everything was carried out to a ‘t’. But from the AANP vantage point it was a pretty rummy turn of events, what with one week’s two-handed push to the back receiving the finger-wag, and another week’s two-handed p. being gaily waved away.

Barely worth arguing about, however; we lost this one by virtue of being second-best rather than because of a refereeing call.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-4 Arsenal: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Tudor Reign

It would be a stretch to say that AANP went into this one feeling positively optimistic, that term being officially defined by the dictionary as “Feeling bobbish, to the extent that when asked for a score prediction one tips the cap at a jaunty angle and smiles a particularly devilish smile”. This was most certainly not AANP pre-match. After all, new manager or not, it was still the same clueless rabble tasked with going out onto the pitch.

Nevertheless, if anything were going to put a little pep into the AANP step, the replacement of that last chap by literally anyone else was a sure-fire bet. It could have been you, it could have been me – as it happened, it was this Igor Tudor chap, and while I don’t know much about his history, the one thing I do know is that he is not, and never has been, Thomas Frank. This represented a definite and sizeable tick against his name.

As hinted at above, there was of course, a limit to what Gospodin Tudor could do ahead of this one. An available manager with a spot of experience in fighting short-term fires he might be, but he’s not a bally magician. Expecting him to plot a way of running rings around the other lot was probably a bit much. Realistically, if he had learnt everyone’s names he had probably hit the acceptable target for week one.

So when our heroes came bounding onto the pitch, AANP’s expectations were suitably limited. To their credit, they certainly did not lack for enthusiasm. Word had evidently got around that North London expected, as a minimum, a demonstration that this occasion mattered; and accordingly, to a man, they tore about the place in the early knockings, racing after the ball like cheetahs spotting some lesser beasts in the Serengeti.

However, what added an odd, and slightly comical edge to proceedings, was that for all their gusto, our lot couldn’t actually get near the ball. For the opening half hour we barely made it into the Woolwich half. In fact, in that opening half hour I’m not sure we touched the ball at all more than half a dozen times.

Every now and then, Bissouma or VDV or whoever it happened to be would successfully get a toe onto the ball to ram it out of play, and the place would erupt. And swept up in the matter, I happily piped up with a throaty roar of approval too. But on catching my breath, the awkward realisation dawned that while we treating every stumbling half-tackle to a standing ovation and a general slapping of each other’s backs, for the other 99 per cent of the time the other lot were running rings around us.

Team Lilywhite, by contrast, could barely find time to gasp for breath before being dragged beneath the surface again. Of a neat, one-touch triangle there was no sign. Actual sustained pressure and creation of chances was the stuff of fantasy. In that first half, for all the good, honest beads of perspiration, the only real triumphs were the occasional tackles that sent the ball out of touch. As brave new eras go, it was fair to say that this one had yet to build up a head of steam.

Still, we snaffled a goal out of nothing, and made it to half-time battered and bloodied but with a faint pulse still registering. Given that the other lot know how to duff up a good thing better than most, there seemed to be a sliver of hope. Moreover, our eleven heroes out on the pitch seemed not to have registered how obviously second-best they were, and were still gamely charging after every loose ball, which was rather charming.

Alas, that was as good as it got, as Woolwich forgot how to choke, the tight margins went against us, the absence of so many from the bench loomed rather starkly into view and what challenge we had offered rather seeped away.

Despite the incessant crowing from my Woolwich-supporting chums over the last 24 hours, AANP won’t be losing too much sleep over this particular reverse, it having been against one of the more organised and efficient mobs around; but with a full week ahead to roll up the sleeves and bark out instruction in not-quite-perfect English, I would jolly well expect a Tudor-inspired uptick to commence from next weekend at Fulham.  

2. Irritating Mistakes

Expectations having been dutifully managed, even at half-time it seemed that a solid hammering was the likeliest outcome, but I was nevertheless rather miffed that in the second half we rather gifted the other lot their goals.

The third – which struck me as the mortal blow – may have ended up in our net via a circuitous route, replete with ricochets and stumbles at every turn, but the dashed thing came about because of a pretty gormless piece of play in the first place from young Dragusin.

A shame, because in the first half, the chap seemed to understand the assignment, and by and large did what was required. While I doubt I will ever back in him a foot-race, and his distribution always prompts a sharp intake of AANP breath, he is the sort of lumbering unit who seems to enjoy a spot of last-ditching in his own penalty area, and in the first half he took the opportunity to demonstrate this capacity with a handful of timely headers, blocks and general inserting of self into the sort of cramped positions that prevented Woolwich sorts from shooting freely.

He gummed up operations considerably for that third though. Pape Sarr, just inside his own half, had the bright idea to send the ball back to Dragusin, outside his own area and under no pressure, but – and as it turned out, critically – at head-height. This was admittedly a complicating factor. One would have hoped that, seasoned international that he is, Dragusin might have been able to bring the thing under a degree of control, perhaps pulling it down closer to earth before sending it off into the heavens.

Instead, he chose the rather dubious option of sending forward a header at an equally awkward height, towards Bissouma. While I suppose one might half-heartedly applaud the fact that he found his own teammate, any further praise rather sticks in the throat, because there are players a dashed sight better than Bissouma who would have treated such an unhelpful pass with a wobble and a murderous glare back at him.

Anyway, Bissouma, having expended all his useful energy in the first half, was not about to battle for a sub-standard pass in his direction, and before you could murmur “Dash it, one good pass and they’re in on goal”, that horrible lot were in on goal.

Similarly, already in a state of significant disgruntlement by the time the 94th minute rolled around, the pompous dallying of young Spence did little to gruntle me. That Spence is a pest. He undoubtedly has a trick or two in his locker, and one is gripped by the urge to yelp “Ole!” whenever his elastic limbs bamboozle an opponent and magic the ball the other side of them – but the ability to drag the ball around an opponent dost not a Pele make.

High up on the Tudor To-Do List should be the task of shaking Spence violently by the shoulders and drilling into him that he has not half as good as he thinks he is, and should just focus on the basics until we are at least three goals up in any given match.

Being far too convinced of his own abilities, Spence attempted to slalom his way around a couple of the opposition rotters when inside his own area, and not for the first time when attempting such ill-advised tomfoolery was left with a whole omlette’s worth on his face. Woolwich emerged with the ball, and before you could murmur “Dash it, one good pass and they’re in on goal again”, that horrible lot were in on goal again.

This is not to suggest that had every individual error been removed we would have gone toe-to-toe and emerged triumphant – but no need to roll out the red carpet for them, what?

I do sympathise to an extent – willing nibs like Palhinha and Archie Gray did their damnedest, but made the sort of positional mistake (for the second) that one might expect of a central midfield being asked to slot in at the back and hope no-one notices; while for the fourth poor old Archie Gray put in the sort of challenge that one might expect from a boy in a man’s world, and was more or less shoved out of the way without a second thought by that Gyokeres rotter.

So while these shortcomings are hardly the faults of Messrs P. and G., the more block-headed errors detailed previously were entirely avoidable.

3. A Forlorn Grumble

For the avoidance of doubt, even had we eked out a surreptitious draw, it would have been quite the act of larceny. Defeat by a three-goal margin sounded about right.

Nevertheless, had the disallowed Kolo-Muani goal been allowed to stand, many a neutral onlooker would have rubbed their hands and licked their lips in anticipation of Woolwich imploding once more. No knowing how events might have panned out of course, but in the absence of any hint of attacking patterns, one has to cling to whatever passing wreckage presents itself.

One understands why the goal was disallowed – two hands to the back does have a pretty incriminating look about it. And a standard AANP motto at this point is “Don’t give the referee the option”. Put another away, if R.K-M had kept his hands to himself, we might have jigged off down the High Road with a point in the bag.

However, even the two-handed contact, such as it was, was hardly enough to send Gabriel flailing off in the air like that. If you don’t mind a spot of top-level physiology, when one unexpectedly takes a bump or stumble, and finds themselves off-balance, the instinct is to shoot the hands downwards, to prevent the fall. Cushion the blow, as it were. It’s what might call Nature’s Way.

Closer inspection of that bounder Gabriel, however, reveals that on receiving his pat on the back he flung his arms upwards, a sure sign of a spot of the old Hollywood. And not just his arms in fact. The irritating drip flung out every available limb and fairly propelled himself through the air, just to make sure that he made the highlights reel. It was actually a pretty risky manoeuvre, for he would have looked quite the dimwit if the ref had rolled his eyes and waved matters on.

As it turns out, the Match of the Day hawks were also onto this, pointing out that earlier this season a similar push by Liverpool’s Ekitike on our very own Cristian Romero went unpunished, to the tune of a goal conceded, so there’s certainly a precedent for this sort of thing being allowed to fly. (Another moan about this might be to ask whether a penalty would have been awarded had a similar push been effected upon a striker – one assumes not).

To repeat, that moment is by no means the reason we lost yesterday. Our latest Glorious Leader did at least seem to spark some life and willing into the troops; next up he simply needs to instil at least the faintest hint of tactical strategy.

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Spurs match reports

Forest 3-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Hangover

I took the liberty of indulging in a rare evening out in the metropolis yesterday, sinking a few in one or two of London’s watering holes, and shaking a leg on the occasional dance-floor, so it was a well-oiled AANP whose head hit the pillow in the wee small hours. As such, Sunday lunchtime did not catch me in my rarest form. The head throbbed, the breathing was deep and the exhalations were quite likely flammable. A gentle, restful afternoon beckoned.

This, however, was all acceptable enough, because I was not due to run out onto a football pitch and play, a princely sum having been thrust into my back-pocket for the privilege, with the expectation of being somewhere near my physical peak for the following 90 minutes. Put another way, I could be excused for moping about the place, the very embodiment of lethargy. For our heroes out on the pitch, no such excuse existed.

And yet. I’m not sure that in the entire match our lot strung together three consecutive passes of any meaning. Apart from Archie Gray’s instinctive turn-and-volley in the first half, I’m not sure we managed a shot on target either. AANP has never really been one for xG, the details of that particular data-point seeming to me often to obscure the actual game as it unfurls before the eyes; but its broad principle I do understand, and for our lot yet again to have failed to hit 0.5 xG in the entire match tells a gloomy tale (and not whilst playing any of Europe’s elite, mind, but a Forest side casting a nervous glance over the shoulder at the relegation spots, dash it).

To a man, our troupe looked thoroughly undercooked, from first whistle to last. As mentioned, the inability to string together more than a couple of accurate passes was bewildering, and every time someone or other did have the bright idea of swooping in to win possession, this minor triumph was fairly instantly sullied by an errant pass following it immediately.

The complete absence of quality throughout was loosely mirrored by a fairly minimal level of energy, all of which left me wondering by the end if the gang in yellow on display this afternoon had also been lurking in those drinking-spots and dance-floors, into the wee small hours last night.

2. Vicario

I prattled on a couple of weeks ago, in the wake of Vicario’s grade A blunder against Fulham, that the chap really needed to keep his head down and his nose clean for the foreseeable, and generally avoid drawing any attention to himself.

It was a sentiment that drifted to mind as I buried the head in the hands circa minute 50, at which time the ball gently rolled around inside the netting, Vicario having immersed himself in quite the pickle when dealing with a misdirected cross.

I didn’t hang around for the post-match niceties – the AANP hangover was bad enough after sitting through that 90-minute performance – so I couldn’t quote back to you the key points made by Master Hudson-Odoi when quizzed, as he presumably would have been, about whether that was intended as a cross or a shot. It seems a pretty safe bet, however, that when the moment arrived, shortly after he had twisted Bentancur’s blood to a level bordering on the inhumane, that on looking up from the left corner of the area, his strategy was to deliver a cross and rely on better-placed chums to do the rest.

Not being a goalkeeper, I’m not really qualified to opine in any real depth as to what specifically Vicario ought to have done, but in a broader sense, several decades of watching and occasionally playing the game has taught me that goalkeepers ought not let crosses drift past them and into the net.

So, wiser minds than mine would presumably be able to lay out the specifics of where Vicario ought to have planted his feet, and how his body-weight ought to have been distributed and so forth – but ultimately, surely, the drill would have been to have prevented ball from entering net. In this he spectacularly failed. While it was probably not the worst error a goalkeeper could ever make – frankly it was not the worst this specific goalkeeper has made in the last month – a goalkeeping error it nevertheless was, and the logbook of such misdeeds is now growing to troubling heft.

If he were in any other position in the pitch, I suspect Vicario would by now have been quietly demoted to the sidelines, with a view to clearing his head and returning a few weeks or months hence, fit and bronzed and ready to give that penalty area a jolly good marshalling.

However, he is not in any other position; he is in the unique position of goalkeeper, and Our Glorious Leader is therefore facing a rather delicate balancing act. The first reserve, young Kinsky, has shown himself to a goalkeeper possessed of various fine qualities, but also never too far away from an out-of-the-blue howler himself. While there is a legitimate question, of quite how bad Vicario has to be before he is dropped, the waters are slightly muddied by the fallibility of the first reserve. No point removing Vicario, I mean, if the chap who replaces him is just as creaky, what?

3. Thomas Frank

Talking of chaps whose performances are creaking like nobody’s business, at what point do we need to start talking about The Big Cheese?

As my Spurs-supporting chum Ian pointed out during the morbid, post-match back-and-forth, Forest are on their third manager of the season, yet the Dyche chap, approximately 5 minutes into the gig, seems to have slapped together a unit with some degree of identity – by which I mean that they have a shape, a playing style, and personnel each of whom seem to know their jobs.

Compare and contrast to our own Glorious L., and identity – as defined above – is rather awkwardly lacking. “A work in progress”, one might generously offer, and if still in generous mood one might also point to the notable absentees amongst the cast list – Messrs Solanke, Kulusevski and Maddison still all apparently chugging paracetamol.

However, to this I emit a rather cheesed off sort of tut, and point out that absent though that lot might be, the next cabs on the rank are hardly unproven youths from the academy, but multi-million pound A-listers such as Kolo Muani, Simons and Kudus (AANP has a moral objection to the classification of Richarlison as an A-lister, so I’ll stick with those three for now). Even making the presumption that Frank is prioritising the defence first, he ought still to be able to get some sort of tune out of that front three.

Irritatingly, our lot seem to have regressed since that Super Cup performance against PSG. The whole thing would drive me potty if watching it had not already sapped every ounce of enthusiasm from my being

 All three goals conceded were today had about them a touch of the unlikely (although I noted a compilation of long-range goals conceded by our lot this season ran to around a dozen, so something in the apparatus clearly isn’t quite working), but what sucked my will to live this afternoon was not so much the goals conceded as the complete absence of creativity or strategy in the other direction.

As ever, the gist seemed to be nothing more nuanced that Go Wide And Hope. Moreover, this GWAH gambit seemed explicitly to exclude use of the left wing, where Kolo Muani is rather mystifyingly square-pegged, leaving all our eggs in the Mohammed Kudus-shaped basket. (I slosh over the details of course – Djed Spence, for example, seemed task with much of the heavy lifting out on the left – but the vague point remains that we were oddly short of ideas beyond going wide and keeping fingers crossed.)

Four months into the season both results and performances are dreadful, and the occasional stroll against a European minnow is doing little to paper what is not so much a crack as a great yawning chasm. Frank needs to buck up his ideas and pronto.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Fulham: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Frank’s Insistence on Crosses, Crosses and Nothing But Crosses

One can well imagine the creased brow with which Herre Frank glugged down his morning brew at the breakfast table today, because the shipping of disastrous goals, and ceding of points to a team that, for all their merits, peddle utter bilge each away day without fail, doth not a happy camper make. Speaking as one man about the world to another, I do of course, incline the head sympathetically towards the chap. No-one really likes to see one’s fellow man take a bit of a kicking, especially when that fellow m. is an egg as laden with sound moral fibre as Thomas Frank.

This, however, is not a business for sympathy and consoling cuddles. It is, simply, a business for scoring more goals than the other lot – preferably doing so while swanning around the place playing the sort of breezy football that makes onlookers go weak at the knees and purr with admiration. And Thomas Frank does none of the above.

The drill is, presumably, to sort out the defence first of all, and peddle some pretty basic attacking fare up the other end, to help keep results ticking over. Now the word “presumably” is doing some generous grunt-work in that sentence, because our defence in its current state is anything but “sorted out”. And should any smooth-talker try to convince me otherwise, I would wave at them the 11 goals we’ve conceded within the last week alone. No matter the standard of the opposition, 11 goals in a week is laying it on a bit thick.

So after three months at the big desk, Frank has hardly worked wonders at the back. One might wave a forgiving hand. Ours, after all, is a defence that has creaked away for several decades.

Where AANP cracks his knuckles and shoots the inscrutable glare, however, is in the attacking third. Specifically, it’s Frank’s seeming insistence that the road to goals is paved with crosses from the wing and crosses from the wing only.

The chap seems to labour under the misapprehension that to build niftily through the centre is to commit some foul abuse against humanity. Of zingy one-touch football in the middle lanes there is no sign.

For clarity, I have no significant allergy to crosses from the wing. When delivered well they tend to be mightily effective, That Beckham character may have long ago disappeared under the detritus of celebrity, but once upon a time his crossing from the flank was an instrument of considerable impact. Indeed, as and when Senor Porro gets round to reading this, I don’t doubt that he’ll start gesticulating wildly and scream forcefully in my direction about how effective his deliveries can be.

However, by and large, crosses can be defended, if the unit tasked with so-doing know their defensive onions. One only needed to keep an eye on proceedings yesterday to note how the whole attacking strategy can be rendered null and void if the defenders arrange themselves at the appropriate coordinates. Our lot seemed to lob a decent number of crosses towards the area in each half, almost all of which seemed promptly to be repelled. To say that the plan had limited efficacy would be to undersell the thing.

The alternative, of a spot of midfield guile, seems to be well down the agenda. A stat before the midweek CL game suggested that our heroes had racked up a grand total of 4 through-balls all season, and I don’t know about you, but that one boggled the dickens out of my innocent little mind. I make that about one through-ball every 4 matches, which speaks volumes for the level of creativity spouting forth from the lilywhite midfield. That Simons has been banished to the bench in recent weeks says much.

As mentioned above, I can only assume that Frank considers defence the current priority, during which period of stabilization he will instruct the forwards to adopt the simplest route to goal, by going wide and crossing. AANP does not like the whiff.

2. Vicario

Mind you, Frank might have had the best plans in the world, but there’s no real legislating for a moment as knuckle-headed as Vicario’s little wander-and-kamikaze routine. Golly. As howlers go, it was a pearler. Credit to the Fulham chappie I suppose, because he was hardly presented with a tap-in; but nevertheless, the headline of that particular episode was the dreadful mess single-handedly crafted by our resident gatekeeper.

The reaction to Vicario thereafter – and I refer to the ongoing booing that followed the young bean throughout the game like a nasty spectre, rather than the immediate release of astonished vitriol in the 20 or so seconds after the goal – was not really cricket. Flag that he’s made an error, by all means. Bestow a dozen or so curses upon his lineage, of course. But thereafter, once the deed has been done and the head hung in shame, upon the restart of the game there is no real reason to keep giving him the bird throughout. Not really sure what purpose that served.

Back to the error itself, however, and as a lad who’s not exactly garnered universal acclaim during his lilywhite career, for one reason or another, you’d have thought that he’d have had the good sense to minimise the risk of increased opprobrium, particularly the sort brought upon oneself at a time of minimal preceding risk.

And minimal preceding risk was abundant in N17 when Vicario first wandered from his post to inspect the left touchline and take possession. Pedants might point out that a Fulham nib made a perfunctory toddle in his direction, but I’m not sure any jury would accept that the match had entered a high-stakes moment at that juncture. Any onlooker of sound mind would have advised the basic two-step: “Clear the ball, return to the goal”.

Whatever the hell then crossed Vicario’s mind next is a little tricky to fathom, but the takeaway, particularly amongst those who have viewed him with a suspicious eye, was that he tries to be far too clever, rather than sticking to the goalkeeping basics.

There was not a great deal he could have done about the first, nor indeed about any of the five that flew past him midweek – but drop a clanger of yesterday’s ilk, and precious few in attendance will shout from the rooftops about how innocent he was during the preceding half-dozen conceded.

No doubt Frank will stick with him, and we are hardly overflowing with obvious alternatives; nor am I particularly calling for his expulsion from the unit. I do advise the chap, however, to keep his head down and keep things as inconspicuous as possible in the coming weeks. There is a time to draw attention to oneself, and a time to melt quietly into the background; and the age in which we live is very much the latter.

3. Kolo Muani

Finishing off on a brighter note, as goodness knows we need one, it’s at least encouraging to see young Kolo Muani start to deliver on the sunny optimism that greeted his arrival, at least at AANP Towers.

It was a different era, of course, all joviality and positivity, but when he and Simons scrawled their initials on the dotted line, a couple of little jigs were danced around these parts.

Naturally, this being N17, there then followed the standard spate of injuries, but in midweek at PSG, and then yesterday, I thought that he at least started to look the sort of fellow who, quite frankly, seems too good for our lot. Obvious though it may seem, I was particularly enamoured of the volleyed goal in Paris, and while in yesterday’s second half there was a general uptick in performance across the suite, Monsieur K-M also struck me as the standout performer in the first half.

The bar is pretty low, admittedly. Richarlison gives the impression of a fairly moderate player near the peak of limited powers; Kudus has evidently something about him; but Kolo Muani, by virtue of his technique and ability to do naturally what most others would probably consider pretty exceptional, strikes me as quite the diamond in the rough.

It would, of course, make more sense to wax lyrical about the chap after a match in which he actually saves the day, or embellishes the day, or in general just peddles his wares on a slightly more positive day for our lot – but given the doom, gloom and general exasperation brought on by results of the last week or so, a dollop of silver linings does no harm, what?

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Everton 0-3 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Formation

If you had caught a glimpse of AANP during the opening exchanges of this one,  you’d have spotted him viewing proceedings with eyes narrowed and brow furrowed; and if on the basis of the narrowed e. and furrowed b. you’d inferred that he was having a dickens of a time trying to work out the formation adopted by our heroes, you’d have been bang on the money. Which, ironically enough, is precisely what AANP was not bang on when trying to decipher that set-up.

The first thought that floated between the AANP ears was that Our Glorious Leader had gone with two right wingers at the same time. Which, if true, would have been Thomas Frank’s prerogative, of course. He’s the shot-caller, after all. If he wanted to go down the Not-Typically-Done route then he had every right. As long as it works, went the AANP take, then do your damnedest.

But while I was lustily supporting this little tactical quirk, it dawned on me that whatever our formation was, it wasn’t one featuring two right wingers. The next notion to spring to mind was wing-backs, but this did not seem quite right either. Spence, perhaps, was adopting wing-back-like poses on the left; but out on the right, Johnson didn’t really appear to be signing up to the “back” part of the wing-back arrangement.

And what, I asked myself, was Kudus? Or perhaps more pertinently, where was Kudus? Because for what I assumed was a Number 10 sort of role, he seemed to be drifting out to the right an awful lot.

Anyway, the main takeaway of all this was that it’s a good job I’m not a manager, as I’d have spent most of that first half simply goggling at the lilywhite formation rather than doing anything useful.

With the dust settled, I guess it was a 3-2-4-1 sort of get-up, in possession at least – with Spence and Johnson up the flanks, and Simons and Kudus inside them. Frankly, the label matters little at this point, for the gist is that it ought to have provided a few more passing options whenever we advanced up the pitch, as well as the standard defensive stability of the Palhinha-Bentancur double-act.

I suggest that it “ought” to have provided more passing options going forward, because in practice the quick passing routines didn’t really register. Not that it mattered too much today, given that our set-piece sequences were immaculately choreographed, and all defensive parts in fine working order at the other end. But I nevertheless noted, with a sigh that was two parts patience and one part disappointment, that despite a Spence-Simons-Kudus-Johnson line supporting Kolo Muani, we remained a little light on the old whizz-bang when trundling forward.

2. Set-Pieces

One can’t have it all, however, and to criticise in the slightest a 3-0 away win at a mighty imposing estate would be pretty off. With two goals nodded in from set-pieces this had the Frank fingerprints all over it.

I view set-pieces much as I view technology, in that it ought to supplement rather than replace the honest sweat and endeavour of the good souls involved, and our heroes used it marvellously today, supplementing things like billy-o.

There was the delivery, for a start. The Porro corner for our second contained a level of spite that ought really not to be allowed before the watershed. It absolutely fizzed into the area, to such an extent that had it not been converted one would really have had no option but to launch an independent enquiry to understand why not. Mercifully, Van de Ven had the good sense to give the ‘keeper a knowing shove and then angle his head appropriately, but while it was the Dutchman who drank in the plaudits, the AANP glass was raised to Porro.

While the delivery for the opening goal (courtesy of Kudus) did not necessarily carry quite the same level of menace, it being swung a tad more gently towards the far post for Bentancur, I did nevertheless applaud its accuracy. A yard higher or lower and the whole operation would have crumbled in its infancy. Kudus, to his credit, dropped the thing at the designated coordinates, and at the designated time and – critically – at the designated height.

Interestingly, although that aforementioned D.H. was, specifically, head height, Bentancur took it upon himself to improvise a little. And there was no harm in that at all. If a little innovation was good enough for Thomas Frank when doodling his formations, then it was good enough for Bentancur when arriving at the back-post. One might well have spotted Bentancur mouthing the words, as he shimmered towards the back post, “Just because it’s called ‘Head height’ does not preclude me from using my shoulder, what?”

The moment of improv. worked swimmingly, and VDV’s head-angling got its first taste of action. And let’s face it, if the t’s are crossed and i’s dotted on set-pieces as meticulously as that, then there is a little less pressure on the front five to string together too many slick passes.  

3. Danso

As mentioned, VDV knew a good thing from approximately two yards out when he saw one, and full credit to him, but with Romero again missing – that innocuous pre-match ‘knock’ of last week proving a dashed sight more sinister than we had initially been led to believe – I once again adjusted the monocle and subjected young Master Danso to feverish scrutiny throughout.

And once again – for the third time in a week, in fact – the fellow emerged with a laudable report card. One doesn’t have to search too hard to find a fish of lilywhite persuasion who will fold their arms, tilt their head and remark sadly that the absence of Romero deprives us of some incisive passing from the back, the undertone being that we might as well all pack up and go home in the absence of such line-breaking gold. AANP, however, is a more traditional sort of egg, brought up to believe that a defender’s purpose in life is to defend, and it was with this anthem on my lips that I meted out the approving nod and slapped the approving thigh each time Danso unveiled another of the defensive basics.

I think I heard within the post-match burble that Danso rattled off more clearances than anyone else in the vicinity, and while I couldn’t put a hand on the Bible and swear to it, I certainly would not be surprised. He seemed fully committed throughout to the basic notion that Ball Near Goal was Bad, and Ball Away From Goal was Good – and frankly it was an attitude that I could get on board with.

He might not necessarily be the sort of fish we want manning the helm when Europe’s elite come to town, but for an hour and a half in the pouring rain in Everton, he put the fevered mind at ease.

4. Vicario

A congratulatory word also for our resident back-stop, who had seemingly been convinced that the final whistle at Monaco still had not sounded, and consequently just carried on where he left off there.

Two second half saves in particular were of the absolute highest order. Admittedly I say that from a position of general ignorance when it comes to this goalkeeping lark, but to stick out a paw from point-blank range when the opposition chappie is pulling off an overhead kick seemed to take some doing; while the save from a shot that took two deflections really did have me purring in admiration. Reflexes, one was inclined to murmur, maketh the top-notch save.  

My views on Vicario at corners remain a little more mixed – for every successful punch to the edge of the area there seemed also to be one rather sorry attempt to propel himself forward that was aborted midway through when he ran into a jungle of bodies. However, this was a day to salute, again, the fellow’s fine shot-stopping, and those two second half saves were essentially worth goals.

A second clean sheet, on the road, within three days, is not to be sniffed at, and certainly provides a useful base upon which to build a hale and hearty future; concerns about creativity can wait for another day.